“Why do you do that...?” Tiber's countenance soured. In public, he acted with grace – speaking only of service. But in private... Well, there had been many bruises plastered on Tyr's fair cheek on behalf of the man's 'lessons'. Tyr was well aware that he deserved them, and never hated Tiber for it.

It was a good question. Why did he do that?

“He will make a useful ally in the days to come.” Tyr sipped from his flagon. He liked drink, but he wasn't stupid. He drank his fill, and stopped when was necessary. The rest came as a watered down ale before he was able to truly enjoy himself. Not always, but on a night like this – it seemed wise. Here, in the company of only Tyr and the black skinned man, with the rest of the crowd avidly avoiding their collective gazes, Tiber could speak freely.

“An ally? He's an apostate. A foul thing. You should have cut him down when you had the chance, he wouldn't have given you the same mercy. He will run, and you will never find him again. Mark my words, and he's going to do something horrible."

Tyr disagreed, but it didn't matter. His word, at the end of the day, was law. He was of an age now where Tiber couldn't scold him as he used to. Like a surrogate father, become smaller than his son. Still, Tyr would have flinched underneath a slap. Perhaps even welcomed it. Tiber was more than a servant, or a knight – he was like an uncle really and truly. Family. Always had been, and by the old ways he was.

“He can't run.” Tyr tapped his nose. It was a secret between the both of them, one he had never revealed to any other. They called the prince and heir talent-less, useless, a waste of good seed. He wasn't without his tricks. He'd had to have them – or else he'd be dead already. Might be, come a moon – whenever his father willed it. And he knew it'd be soon. A primus could only have one heir, and only one male at a time. Nobody knew why, but it was so. Tyr, as the son of such a man, could be the only one. For now, but that didn't mean forever. Eventually, he would be murdered. Disposed of, lost to history. He knew it, and so did everyone else. They even looked forward to it, some of them. Make way for the new heir, they'd say, a real primus.

Tyr wasn't one. He knew that, too. Never would be. Many had whispered in court of his mothers infidelity. What ridiculous rumors those were. Notwithstanding the fact that his mother was honorable and compassionate to a fault, she had loved her husband. Tyr's father had loved her too. Once upon a time. He had known it, though he had no concept of love. The stupidity in such rumors lay in the eyes. His mother had green eyes, and white hair like he. Tyr took after her in the hair, but not much in anything else. His eyes and build were his father's. And his face? They might as well be twins. Tyr had sharper features, but he very much looked like his father. Mages weren't necessary to confirm his birthright, and they had never been called as far as Tyr knew. Primus Jartor had never doubted the fact for a second – though the disappointment was plain in his normally expressionless face whenever he looked at his only son and heir.

When I didn't awaken... And show no signs of doing so.

But facts were facts. Haran was one of the richest human kingdoms on the continent. Maybe even the richest, though Tyr was no coin counting banker. Sure, the free men of Milano and the burghers of Asmarand had their iron vaults – but Haran? Even had they not the coin, they had everything else. The colleges, the support of many inhuman races. Favorable trade routes, land beyond measure. Natural resources that even the famously insular Anu coveted. There was Varia, the 'other' empire, Tyr had heard they were quite rich as well – but second best in terms of wealth in a world full of kingdoms was not so bad.

Even without these things, they'd learn to handle it. Jartor was brutal, but he was just and fair. He'd conquer a people just as his father before him had – and he'd give them a better life. They'd thank him for it eventually. Some of the free marchers even begged for it. That is no jest, they literally begged for it – going so far as to offer every daughter of theirs to the heir – true primus or not.

'Please! Conquer us!'

For some were poor, and no nationalist identity unified them. They wanted to join the empire, but their paltry lands were not worth violating the old treaties.

“He can't run.” Tyr snorted, sniffing at the slab of steaming beef. He didn't drink much after all, this night – but he would eat until his stomach was full. After all, this was the only part of his birthright he wanted part of. The wealth. Not for the sake of wealth, or the station – but because he could eat. And Tiber could attest, the boy could really 'put it away' for his size. Like a fat man gorging himself endlessly, Tyr would finish an entire pig if not dragged away from his obsession with eating. Yet he remained fit. It was a miracle, perhaps that was his mark as a primus and blessing of the gods.

A jest, of course. Though not one Tyr would take offense to. Perhaps there was truth in it. He never felt full, could eat when he was hungry and that would never change. A stomach full would satiate him for a moment, but that was all.

They looked to the blackskin. That was his identifier. Men of Agoron. Tyr had never seen one so close in his life, even up here in one of the trade capitals of the known world. “Oi, blacksk--”The man seemed to have recovered some of his ferocity, or confidence, neither man knew which. He spoke fluent common, understanding him was easy enough. No longer did he shake in fear, perhaps equally disturbed at Tyr's display and agitated by the fact of it. “I have a name. Samson. Do not call me by such a name, blackskin, are you aware of how incredible rude that is? Should I call you white skin?” He replied, his thick brows curved down in an angry 'v' shape at the younger man.

“Oh.” Tyr's face grew serious, no longer in the mood for jest. He had lived by the label his entire life, cursing himself inwardly for his hypocrisy. There was truth in labels, but the wrong label could sting or wrong a man. And men were proud – he knew it best. Sometimes Tyr felt his pride might be enough to swallow a nation one day. “My apologies. I really am sorry. I should have known better.”Perhaps it was his sincerity. His unequivocal look of equity. Samson balked at it. He had known the lash, the cuff, and the iron for some time now. Not expecting such an expression to come from a noble let alone a prince. Not a prince of Haran. Not in this place, with its absurdly clean cities and wealthy citizens. Samson had traveled far afield in distances that most men dream of, he came from a land of great kingdoms and plenty, but these northern kingdoms were special. They lived without moderation, absurdly convenient lives with favorable climates to top it all off. Water and food were plentiful, and still they always wanted more. He'd expect a prince to be more arrogant than this, especially the prince of a primus. There were no primus' in Agoron that he knew of, but all men knew of the primus, they were sacred existences akin to living gods where Samson hailed from. “Forgive me, m--”'Master', he had almost said. But he had no master, not any longer. No family, either, but that was a tale for another day. Neither men were on the same wavelength, but the result of such an interruption was self evident. Samson felt something within him warm at the light rebuke he received.

“No 'my lords'. Just Tyr. I am Tyr. Nothing more, nothing less. If you refer to me otherwise, I'll gut you like a fish. Agreed?”Samson nodded slowly, looking to Tiber who merely shrugged. The old man had no doubt that Tyr would punish him for his obsessive use of titles some time later. Once upon a time, perhaps, Tyr had liked those titles. But not now. Their relationship was set in stone. The boy could try, if he had the mind to. He'd lose, though. Tiber would concede most things for his charge, just not his way with the word or blade. He'd lay the flat of it against his disciples jaw every time. Leaving the boy smarting, retching, or cursing. Depending on the day, and where he struck.

“Samson, where are you from?” Tyr again. Again, with the sincere interest in his eyes. Speaking like they were old friends, and with no drop of venom in the wording of it. No indication that Tyr remembered the fact that the big man would've brained him without pause only minutes earlier. It was like that, with him. A talent of sorts, or a quirk depending on how one viewed such things.

“Agoron, m--” Again, the 'master' sought to sprung to his lips. Samson cursed internally in abject disgust, but old habits were hard to break and he knew it. He was better than that. Soft in the edge or not, or so the boy might appear, he deserved respect as one who had bested the larger man in combat. In this case, the respect of a given name. Names had power and where Samson were from one also used a name before a title, hence he would've been Samson King. Once, but no longer, now he was just an escapee gladiator. “The continent of Agoron, Tyr.”“What brings you to Haran?” Tyr asked, still earnestly look at the man. Interest plain his eyes, while his hands worked at the bone of roasted meat. “Long way from home.”And so he was. Agoron was not a nation, but a continent. None of these northerners cared for the nations therein, but they existed. The Bolo, the Velli, Garmantia, and more besides. Shining, glittering kingdoms, at least in the interior. On the outskirts, there was the Assyrian Confederation, a near and present enemy. Tyr on his part did not miss the scars of shackles on the massive mans wrists. Though he did his best to ignore them, and feign ignorance on the matter for the time being. It was all part of the game. A game that he had learned through many years spent as the underdog. The 'disappointing', 'talentless' son. Anything but prodigal, unlike his own father, and all the past menfolk of his line.

He was unique in his impotence, and he hated it. But that didn't mean he'd refuse to go quietly.

“I am from Ghana. Of the Awowogei tribe.” Samson cut to the truth of the matter, a country in the deep interior of Agoron. A wealthy nation, though not so wealthy as the imperialist Haran. They were a people of simplicity and moderation, but their warriors had and always would be legendary – hence why he'd found himself in that predicament in his past. “Lost a fight. Earned a blood price, taken by the yellow men.”'Yellow men' meant the men of Milan. Dark haired and white skin. The 'yellow' was for their standard, not their complexion, a field of gold with a two headed swan at its fore.

“A slave.” Tyr observed darkly. He too could cut to the truth of it. He acted the way that was necessary, but he was educated. Seventeen years of constant study with nary a day off. Lazy, sure, but one can only stand up to the lashes of his father – or fathers – for so long before relenting. At least the world was interesting, in it's own way, something he found hard to hate learning about.

Samson nodded, saying nothing more. There wasn't much to say. Slavery, in Haran, was a capital crime. Some would migrate here, as did others seeking their fortune. 'The Imperial dream' some called it, and it wasn't so inappropriate a term. It wasn't the golden kingdom everyone expected, but it was easy to make an honest life here. Whether by axe to wood, sword to flesh, or goods to coin. But slavery? Never in Haran. Slavers approaching their borders would find their flesh too soft to resist the nails used to pin them to the masts of ironbound ships.

Haran was freedom. Merit. Honor. At least in theory if not practice. At least the first of the three was consistent in all cases, except with mages.

“I'm sorry.” Tyr offered, as genuine as he could be. Tiber too, bowed his head. To be a slave was to be a man worth nothing more than the coin the slavers would pay for your life. Life was not worth gold, it was worth steel or hoe or however a man chose to earn it. This was the way, the right way, and he'd always hated that aspect of Milanese culture. Many of the successor states lived and breathed by the flesh trade, and it was an unfortunate reality. “I really am.”There was hurt behind slavery. Tyr knew, though not from experience – of course. Slavers were no worse than rapists or murderers. No, they were worse. The foulest of all crimes, for to lose ones agency toward life was to find one raped and murdered of all things that make a man and being forced to live through it all, no rest given. Or a woman, who were equal to any of the former. Others, those who claimed no obvious gender – deserved no less than the toil of their backs and hands. Not the whip, or the chain, or any part of the flesh trade that would see children become the toys or evil men.

Samson sighed, shrugging unevenly. In his homeland, perhaps he was a handsome man. Tyr couldn't tell, for he had no standard for it. He was exotic though. Thick as an oak in limb, with a well muscled body and no unnecessary amount of fat. A good build for an axe man. He grew a nice head of hair, too. Impossibly curly, thick as all hells. A clean beard, the pride of any man. Foreigner or not, Samson cut an impressive figure.

Tyr had liked him the moment he had seen his face. Drunk and furious, or otherwise. An honest man, with some pain in him. He would have him, make him his own. Not by chain, or title, or obligation – but in honest loyalty. One day, he hoped. This man interested him, set his heart afire though he ignored the storm of questions that sought to burst out of his mouth. Not enough beer in the world for that, not to break his fast of improper words. This was a man who had seen the whip and not been broken. There was no stronger will that that.

“Be my man.” Tyr stared up at him. In fact, his eyes have never left Samson, not once. They were so still as to be disturbing in their intensity. Deep and blue, as if Samson himself had been cast into the air and forced to stare down at the wide horizon of the seas he had been forced into sailing. As far as the eye could stretch. Just blue, only blue. A wasteland but of a different kind. A wild kind, that hovered just over an endless abyss so vast in its proportions as to stun a man.

This was the way. A talent.

“I...” Samson paused. Though given his courage back, his true courage as a leader of the great people of Ghana, he would frame what he planned to say a different way. “I will be nobodies man. Never again shall I bear the mark of ownership. I am my own man. One day, I will return to my home and win back my honor.”Samson shook his head slowly, interpreting the request as best he could. He doubted the prince meant anything other than servitude, given his stature. That was a common want for men, to see another with a proper body seemed bred for violence and want to call them into service.

“I do appreciate your faith, but I will not serve you.”“Serve me?” Tyr laughed for the first time since they'd met, an honest laugh. A true laugh. The laugh of a boy who had become a man only recently. Bright and cheery, with only the slightest streak of bitterness to it. A rare laugh. “I don't want that...”

Tyr played with the bracelet of blackened metal that his late mother had given him. One of the only presents or tokens he had to bear testament to her short time on this world, and his most precious possession.He, too, shook his head. No need for that. No need for servitude. Service was a jest, and men would betray their masters eventually regardless of oath. Slavery was a crime, a crime with no equal. But it wasn't only that – it wasn't only the wrongness of the deed. It was the inefficiency. No slave army would ever defeat men hardened by community, by brotherhood. Red blooded men of the north knew this well. A man who came forth, axe in hand to defend his home – wife – children – or neighbor. That was a man worth ten thousand slaves forced to fight. The secret edict of the empire, and the reason for their early and consistent success was that they'd never used slaves, they'd been small once and had grown great through their national identity. The steel in them was forged and tempered by their love for one another, and their homeland.

The bonds of fellowship tied men together harder than any steel or mithril. Eternal bonds. Bonds that would send men charging over the black itself with a cry of vengeance on their lips.

“I don't want you to be my servant, Samson.” Tyr leaned back for the first time, smiling. “I want you to be my brother. No obligations, no permanence, just friendship and an opportunity for gainful employment.”

And so it was. What man could resist? This was the way. A talent.

Where a brother might carry themselves later was irrelevant. Hell, Tyr would go with them if he was required. The law of equivalent exchange. They would offer their fealty, even betraying their baser values in the face of his apparent 'sincerity'. And he would do the same, in truth. For any of his men, all of those black hoods and wicked blades in the shadows. Haunting the speakeasy like phantoms.Ruffians, scoundrels, rogues. He'd been called the same. Insults? Hardly. They were but the most honest of men in Tyr's experience.

The mage, too. Tyr got them all the same. Tiber didn't know how the boy did it, but he felt it. The touch of his mother was upon him. A light that tempered the darkness within a boy that was forced to grow older in spirit before his time. Men howled for it, dreamed of it – to call him brother.

Not just the rogues, but the knights too – and Samson would become one of them in time. Bound by no oath beyond a spoken promise. It's own kind of honor. A clasp at the wrist and an oath in the eye, a binding of men, or woman should they prove of ability. There were only equals in the brotherhood.

The old way.